


protective tomlinshaw defcon 10

by ariadne_odair



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Drunk Kissing, Low Self Esteem, M/M, Pining, louis is an idiot, nick is an idiot, supportive boy band members, that sums up all tomlinshaw really, unsupportive radio cohosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 14:45:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2696810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadne_odair/pseuds/ariadne_odair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He also wants to kiss him a lot. That could possibly be a problem. Or a solution. Nick’s brain is a bit fuzzy from the shots.</p><p>“Wait a moment,” Nick scowls. “Are you slagging me off because I <i>haven’t</i> been a prick to you?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Prompt: okay but where is a fic where nick and louis banter endlessly and say rude shit to each other 24/7 but as soon as either of their friends try to do the same it’s protective tomlinshaw defcon 10</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	protective tomlinshaw defcon 10

**Author's Note:**

> Finally done! I really enjoyed writing this, so thank you to the hosts of the fic exchange, and big thanks to my betas: [velvetuberose](http://velvetuberose.tumblr.com/) and [sickwithlarryngitis](http://sickwithlarryngitis.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Here is the link to the prompts page on the tomlinshaw frication: [scroll down a bit :) it's above the instant message prompt](http://taggedtomlinshawficathon.tumblr.com/prompts)

There’s gum in Zayn’s hair.

It’s five minutes before the show and Louis is already so, so fucked. He wasn’t even aiming for Zayn, he was having a bubble gum blowing competition with Niall, and it all got a bit messier than he was planning, and now there’s gum in Zayn’s hair.

“What am I going to do?” he hisses to Harry, who is the only one who will stand by him on this. Liam will moan about responsibility, Niall will just laugh, and Zayn won’t find it amusing for obvious reasons. Harry’s the only one sweet enough, and dumb enough, to actually back Louis up.

Harry cocks his head to one side. He looks like an inquisitive frog. “I don’t know. How did you get the gum in there anyway?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Louis says dismissively, “I just want to get it out before Zayn rips out my spleen and staples it to our next album cover. Do you think that’s possible, Haz?”

“Fine,” Harry sighs, but he does putter over, banging into a side table as he goes. Louis rolls his eyes whilst feeling a rush of warm, soft affection.

“Is he definitely asleep?” Harry asks, peering at Zayn’s still body.

Louis gives Zayn a once over; he looks like Sleeping Beauty, (and more attractive than Louis does when he’s awake), so Louis’ going with yes. “Yeah, I think so.” He wrinkles his nose. “Are we going to have to cut it out?”

“I’m not giving you scissors!” Harry hisses, green eyes widening, “Zayn will kill us if he finds out we’ve cut his hair! So will Lou, and then I won’t be able to babysit Lux for a week.”

Louis stares at him. “Haz, she’s not your mum. She can’t withhold babysitting duties. That’s not a real punishment. In fact, I wish my mum had thought that was punishment.”

Harry pouts. “I like babies.”

“Jesus Christ,” Louis snaps, then freezes when Harry wanders over to the sofa in their dressing room, flopping down and sprawling his noodle limbs all over it. He pulls his phone out, long fingers flying over the keyboard with quick, deft strokes.

“Harry, you can’t give up,” Louis says desperately, because he really is going to be skinned alive if Zayn wakes up. These could potentially be Louis’ last moments on Earth and Harry’s bloody texting.

“I’m not,” Harry protests, eyes glued to his screen, “I’m texting Nick.”

Louis’ about to ask Nick who, but then he remembers that there’s only one Nick. Harry probably has lots of friends called Nick - has lots of friends period, he collects them like lost trinkets - but there’s only one who’s made an impression on Louis, and by made an impression Louis means is an enormous dickhead with stupid hair and even stupider opinions.

“Why the fuck,” Louis says slowly, crossing his arms and glaring at Harry, “are you asking Nick?”

Harry shrugs. “He’s the first person I thought to ask. Plus from an aesthetic point of view Nick looks a little like Zayn. They both have quiffs. It’s all about your target market.”

Louis choses to ignore that particular brand of bullshit. “Haz, Zayn looks nothing like Nick. Nick is a crusty old man that reminds me of a donkey I once saw at the petting farm. Zayn is - you know, I can’t even put into words how attractive Zayn is. There is no comparison. It’s like saying Ernie looks like me.”

Harry blinks. “He does look like you. He’s your brother.”

“He’s a baby,” Louis snaps, rapidly feeling the point he was trying to make slip away from him. “It doesn’t matter, I don’t want Nick’s help.”

“Why don’t you like him?” Harry asks, and he’s doing that thing where he looks like a Disney princess, widening his eyes and batting his eyelashes. Louis wants to punch him, while simultaneously patting him on the head and telling him not to spend all his pennies at once.

“We’ve been over this,” Louis scowls, because they have, numerous, numerous times. “He’s not as funny as he thinks he is, so he’s not funny at all. He’s a pretentious dickhead who pretends not to like things to look cool. His radio show is shit.”

Harry actually looks a little hurt by this. Louis doesn’t know why; it’s all true. He’s been bruised ever since that stupid twitter spat, not to mention the horrible, stomach churning feeling he’s losing his best friend to a new, more exciting group. Throw into the mix that Louis’ bitterly, bitterly jealous Nick’s openly gay, and you have a nice concoction of resentment and longing.

Louis’ not especially proud of it, but he’s also not going to change it any time soon.

“I’ll tell him you don’t want his advice then,” Harry says sadly, clicking away on his phone.

“Great,” Louis says bluntly, rocking back on his heels as Harry slides the phone into his back pocket. “Now help me with this.”

They don’t get the gum out of Zayn’s hair. Louis gets shouted at. It’s not the best of days.

  
  
  


“What about a Christmas-themed ‘Wrecking Ball?’”

Greg crinkles his nose, downing his pint in one go. “I’ve already done ‘Wrecking Ball.’ It took me ages to remove those fake lashes, it was like waxing my eyes.”

Nick shrugs, taking a sip of his own pint. He always feels really manly when he has a pint, which is probably succumbing to every masculine stereotype ever, but it can’t be helped. He’ll have to overcompensate by throwing glitter everywhere later.

“How did you even get them on?” Nick asks, in awe despite himself. His own fancy Christmas lingerie had been bad enough, given there was serious chafing. And he didn’t even have to sit on a giant metal ball.

“With extreme force,” Greg says darkly, and Nick cracks up. “Shut up, you only had to do innuendo bingo. My eyeballs have never been the same.”

Nick only laughs harder, so Greg kicks him under the table, trying to hide his smile. It’s just him and Greg tonight, Aimee and Ian begging over to do something probably sex related. Fiona had told him she couldn’t go for a drink as she was getting a bikini wax. Nick’s not sure if she really was, or if she just wanted to make him cringe, but he’d hung up on her all the same. It’s the principle of the thing.

“You know who you should ask,” Greg begins, and he looks way too innocent for anything good to be about to come out of his mouth, “One Direction. Seeing as they’re coming for an interview next week.”

Nick blinks at him. He has no idea what Greg’s talking about, which is not a good sign. He likes to think he gets a bit of insight considering he’s breakfast host of Radio 1, especially on the guests he’s supposed to be interviewing.

“Did Finchy not tell you?” Greg asks innocently, “Yeah, we’re interviewing 1D next week. They’re back in the UK for the last leg of the tour, BBC thought it’d be a good surprise piece. Boost the ratings.”

“Oh,” Nick says, then isn’t really sure what to say. He looks like an idiot now. Harry hadn’t even mentioned it, but then again Harry is a jet setting popstar, and also an idiot, meaning he probably got distracted by thousands of pieces of trivia rather than the fact he’s going to be doing an interview with Nick.

He’s an utter twat, and Nick loves him a lot.

“Well, maybe I will,” he shrugs. It’ll probably come up anyway.

He takes another sip of his drink. Greg is strangely quiet and it’s freaking him out, so he looks up. Greg has a little smile on his face, which is not reassuring.

“Okay, what?” he says finally, when he can no longer bear the tension. Which is after five seconds because Nick’s not known for his patience. “Why are you smirking? What’s going on?”

“It’s a group interview,” Greg says slowly, “as in they will all be there. Grouped together.”

Greg may have gone mad, or this may be even worse than Nick feared. “Yes, I believe that is what grouped together means.”

“Sooo,” Greg says, drawing it out, “it means you’ll have to talk to Louis. Who you’re not exactly bosom buddies with.”

“I don’t have a bosom,” Nick says flatly. “It’s Harry who’s always flashing his tits.”

Greg gives him a look. “Look, he’s really nice, okay-”

“Got a crush, Greg?” Nick asks immediately, leaning forward in his seat.

It’s fucked up though, because he was supposed to use Greg’s little Directioner crush as manipulation, but it kind of backfires. Nick just gets an uncomfortable feeling turning his stomach inside out, his cheeks heating at the idea of anyone fancying Louis. It throws him off kilter, like the world’s tilted slightly without his notice.

But Nick is the master of repression if anything, so he keeps ribbing Greg until Greg tells him to fuck off. Greg generally has the disposition of an ageing Labrador, so he must be more annoying than usual.

“Look, I promise not to do anything too bad,” Nick sighs finally. “I had some really great ideas, though. Like, winding the wheely chairs all the way up, so his pixie feet don’t touch the floor. Or having one of those overhead mics so - “

“Don’t,” Greg says firmly. “Don’t pretend he’s not your type.”

Nick would like to say that pulls him up short, but it really doesn’t. Nick isn’t arrogant enough to pretend Louis isn’t sort of what he goes for - tiny, pretty blue eyes, caramel coloured hair, amazing arse, thighs he dreams of rubbing off on, the most gorgeous cheekbones -

But it’s not like Nick actually likes him. It’s just Nick has certain parameters for attractiveness, and Louis happens to fit them all. Pure coincidence. It’s not like Nick’s going to jump his bones the moment he steps through the door.

“He’s a child,” Nick says firmly, swirling the last sips of his drink, trying to ignore the queasiness he feels at the words. “Both in personality and anatomy. I feel like a pervert just standing next to him.”

“Have you ever?” Greg asks thoughtfully, like he spends a lot of time contemplating the proximity Louis and Nick have shared. “There was that incident with the tea bags - “

“We don’t talk about that,” Nick snaps, “stop harassing me.”

“You love it,” Greg sing songs, and smirks for the rest of the night.

  
  


Louis is homesick.

He loves his job. He does. He always feels bile in his throat whenever his thoughts drift that way, feels the steady pressure of _don’t complain, this is your dream, why are you being so ungrateful?_

But he’s homesick, fuck it, and being on a sweaty, hot tour bus is not helping. His bunk is too warm, too cramped. His eyes feel gritty, and when he closes them everything is washed in grey.

He misses his mum, her sweet perfume and her kind eyes, even if Louis can’t shake the feeling of disappointment every time he sees her. He hates not seeing them as much as he could, always feels the guilt manifest when he realises Ernie’s put on more pounds, or Fizzy has lost her baby fat.

Louis spends a minute deliberating whether to wallow in his own sweat and self-pity, but in the end he pushes himself up. There’s only so much lolling around Louis can take, so he totters out to the kitchen area of the bus.

Niall is sitting there, predictably, and Louis tugs his jumper over his hands as he pads across the floor. He flicks on the kettle, swearing when  he realises there’s only Harry’s herbal shit. He couldn’t give a damn how invigorating ginseng and lemon is, he wants a cup of fucking Yorkshire.

“What’s with the swearing?” Niall mumbles around his sandwich, eyes meeting Louis’, “thought you were having a nap, Tommo.”

“Fucking tried,” Louis snaps, but it’s feeble and they both know it. Louis has a disgusting inability to be properly horrible to his boys, not least with Niall. “It’s too hot. The bunk’s too small.”

“You’re homesick, then,” Niall says calmly, because Niall is in no way dumb, no matter how much he looks like an innocent, Irish cherub. “You can say it. I think Liam’s missing Loki. He spent half an hour looking at personalised collars on his laptop.”

Louis snorts, grabbing one of Harry’s tea bags. When you’re going through hell, keep going and all that. He slings it into the cup, scowling at the murky yellow colour it turns. “Niall, do you think this looks like piss?”

“Wouldn’t put it past Harry,” Niall says nonchalantly, which makes Louis laugh at least. “Here, do you want to see something Zayn taught me the other day?”

“Is it how he does his quiff?” Louis asks, sliding into a seat next to Niall. “Don’t think I haven’t seen the serious hair game going on between you two.”

“Yeah, well what about you and Harry?” Niall shoots back, “You’re both needing hairbands now. You both look like you’re homeless.”

“Get onto the idea,” Louis whines, slumping in his seat. “Please, Niall, pleeease.”

“Hang on,” Niall says, fishing his iPod out of his pocket, “Zayn hooked my iPod up.” He hands Louis an ear bud, popping one in his one ear. “Listen.”

Louis puts the ear bud in, then jumps when he hears the familiar jangle. “Thank you very much, Finchy,” a voice says, “as ever that was utterly helpful, I - “

Louis doesn’t get to hear what Matt did that was so beneficial, because he’s ripping the ear bud out of his ear. He kind of wants to throw it at Niall’s face, but his reflexes are sleepy slow, and that may be a bit much.

“What was that?” Louis asks flatly, glaring at Niall. Again, weakly because his eyes are too sleepy.

“Er, the Radio 1 Breakfast Show,” Niall says slowly, wrinkling his nose, “you might have heard of it, it’s quite famous - “

“I mean, why are we listening to it?” Louis says icily.

“Zayn says it reminds him of home,” Niall says, “says the accent is familiar.”

“That is sickeningly nostalgic,” Louis groans, thumping his head on the table. He closes his eyes, pressing his forehead to the cool surface. He’s tired, and grumpy, and the last thing he wants is Nick fucking Grimshaw’s voice in his ear.

Niall runs his hand through Louis’ hair, gently massaging his scalp. “I thought you would have liked it, Tommo.”

“I like radio,” Louis says, voice muffled from the table top. “It’s the host I’m not too enamoured with.”

Louis can practically hear the wheels turning in Niall’s head, before he clicks what Louis’ talking about. “Oh, Grimshaw? Do you still hate him? You shouldn’t. Harry will be sad, and then he’ll do that thing with his face.”

Louis has a visual run-through of all Harry’s expressions. “The disgruntled frog face, the snuffly kitten face, or the smacked puppy face?”

“The smacked puppy,” Niall says seriously, “but there could be a chance of disgruntled frog later on.”

“What’s his countenance for sleeping with the enemy?” Louis snaps, then immediately feels guilty. Harry has that effect on people. He doesn’t take it back though. Louis has issues. He’s aware.

“I don’t think he was ever sleeping with him,” Niall says thoughtfully, as if this is something that actually deserves deliberation. “I think that’s just a side effect of the whole hipster thing.”

“Hipsters don’t sleep together, they make love under the light of the moon,” Louis says primly, “with rose petals. Wait, no, that’s too mainstream. Like, a tiger lily that only grows in the mountains of Mexico or something.”

“You have given that way too much consideration,” Niall says calmly. “Are you sure you don’t want to sleep with him?”

“No!” Louis shouts. “What the - how is that - no, I fucking don’t.”

“You know how some people sound calm and rational? Yeah, that’s not you.” Niall gives him a pointed look, taking another bite of his sandwich.

“Why would I want to sleep with him?” Louis snaps again. Christ, he sounds like the protagonist of a regency novel. Eat your heart out, Elizabeth Bennet. “He’s a wanker. I don’t do wankers. Wankers come nowhere near my body, I’m like, seventy kilos of wanker repellent.”

“Right,” Niall says. He sounds like he doesn’t believe Louis. Louis has used that exact tone many a time, most recently when Liam denied sending over-apologetic and unnecessary tweets to the fans.

“Don’t use that voice on me, Horan,” Louis scowls. “I don’t want that dick anywhere near me. I don’t want that dick’s dick anywhere me. I don’t - “

“I get the analogy,” Niall says, then bursts into laughter. Louis is beyond being surprised at this point. “Ha, anal - ogy. I’m going to text Harry that one.”

“I’m not talking to you,” Louis says firmly. He’s still tired, thoughts fuzzy, and the last thing he needs is Grimshaw on the brain. God, it sounds like some kind of terminal disease. “And I’m not talking to Nick Grimshaw, or even breathing in his direction, because he is a piece of shit, and I hate him.”

Niall blinks at him, then smiles.

“You are so fucking passive aggressive,” Louis says. “I’m going back to my bunk. To suffocate myself with my blankets.”

“Okay,” Niall says blandly, and takes a massive bite of his sandwich. Louis stomps off to his bunk, throws the cover over his head, and sulks.Less than ten seconds later he throws the cover off.

It’s too fucking hot.

  


All in all, Nick’s actually had quite a nice morning. He’s definitely on track for breaking the twerking record, Showbot had been on point, and his picture of Pig sleeping in his bed had been retweeted more times than Greg’s selfie.

 (No one has to know Pig doesn’t sleep in his bed, nor does she normally look so adorable. She usually drools everywhere, bares her teeth, and has a face only a mother, AKA Nick, despite the inconclusive paternity results (ha, Nick is so funny in his head)could love.

So he may have artfully arranged his dog so he looked more photogenic. To beat Greg’s selfie score. Greg had an unfair advantage in not having four legs.)

(Not that his dog isn’t beautiful.)

(Christ. He is a terrible dog owner.)

“Right,” Nick says into his mic, glancing at the clock. “We’ve got half an hour, I think it’s time to announce our new game. It was lovely Finchy’s idea, which says a lot about him once you hear the name of the game.”

Matt flips him off. Nick catcalls, just to see the expression on his face. “You’re lucky we haven’t got the webcams on, Matt just made a very rude gesture. Very, very rude. What’s a better word for rude?”

“Obscene,” Ian supplies helpfully, which is why he is secretly Nick’s favourite.

“Thank you,” Nick says graciously “Anyway, the game is called Love or Shove. We pick a bunch of celebrities, and you say which one you’d love, and which one you’d - “

“Shove,” Matt finishes in a weary voice. “And then you choose - “

“What you’d shove them into,” Nick finishes. “Which when Matt said it sounded vaguely homicidal. I’m pretty sure he was thinking like, pits of sharks, down the sides of mountains.”

“I am not homicidal,” Matt grouches. Nick does love a bit of grouchy Matt.

“Uh huh,” Nick says, just to piss him off. “Right, so you can choose your degree of aggression. Like, pushed into a swimming pool, not too bad. Bath of dog food and maggots, bit harsh. Right, we’ve got our first caller on the line.”

The producers have hilariously chosen One Direction as their celebrities for the day, and Nick’s first caller is a nice girl called Natalie. She’s giggly, and sweet enough, choosing to push Niall in ‘a bath of potatoes, because he’s Irish, isn’t he?’

Nick applauds her on her racism, then switches to the next caller. A girl called Stacey says she’d push Harry into a hairdresser, because his locks are too long. Nick secretly thinks that’s quite funny, but chides her gently anyway. Okay, so he might agree actually, but he doubts Harry’s listening anyway.

“Okay, our third - and last, drumroll please, Finchy, - caller of the game.” Nick flicks the button for caller three, then leans forward on his hands. “Caller 3, name and purpose please.”

“James, and er, to be on the Radio show?” the caller replies, voice going up at the end questioningly.

Nick immediately hates that voice, which is ridiculous and unfounded, but Nick knows voices. He works on the radio, he is a voice expert. He can tell from the first vowel  whether it’s going to be a disembodied best friend, or a condescending idiot that will have Nick wishing he’d never got up this morning.

“Good guess,” Nick says cheerfully, because he has to try be a little professional. “Right, give us your selected One Direction member.”

“Er, the football one,” James says, which is just bad practise. If you’re going to come on Nick’s show to talk about One Direction, know your One Direction members. Or like, pick an obvious one. Like Harry.

“Louis,” Fiona supplies helpfully. She’s not being helpful, Nick can see her rolling her eyes from here.

“Yeah, Louis,” James says, brash tone seeping back in. “The short one.”

“Right,” Nick says slowly, sharing a look with Ian, “and where would you push him?”

“Towards a vocal coach,” James, the now-revealed utter dickhead says, and then laughs uproariously like that was hilarious.

There’s this awful, terrible silence where no one laughs. Nick can feel his fingers gripping his desk tightly, knuckles turning white. Seriously, is there not some kind of dickhead screener the BBC can use? A wanker detector that blocks call from utter arseholes.

“Bit harsh, mate,” Nick says after a beat. “I’m all for one getting a jibe in, but that was a bit below the belt.”

“Well,” dickhead James begins, “I don’t - “

“Ah, _but I do_ ,” Nick sighs, “and so do all the Directioners out there. Hundreds of them. A mini _army_. You probably shouldn’t have started at all, your card’s marked, mate. I’d stay off Twitter.”

“I’d stay off the _street_ ,” Fiona mutters, then winces when Ian kicks her under the desk.

It’s like one of those out of body experiences, Nick can see Matt making ‘abort’ movements but it’s like he can’t stop the words spilling out. “Come to think of it, can you sing, James?”

“Um.” James sounds like he’s not quite sure what’s going on. “Er -”

“Thought not,” Nick says thinly, voice rising. “Shouldn’t really be judging then, should you? Glass houses and all that, only this is the One Direction fandom. And they’ll throw more than stones, they’ll throw huge, pointy- “

“That’s all we’ve got time for,” Matt swoops in, queuing up the familiar tones of the Radio 1 theme song. “Thank you, James. We’ll back in a few minutes, over to Collette for the weather.”

Matt switches off the mics, turning to Nick with an incredulous look. Ian and Fiona are wearing similar expressions, though Fiona looks pretty happy about Nick’s outburst. Nick can feel himself flushing, which he never does.

“What the hell was that?” Matt explodes, face turning purple. Nick can’t even bring himself to enjoy the sight, he’s so mortified about what he just did. He can’t believe he just spoke to a caller like that, and all because he was in some Louis Tomlinson anger-induced delirium.

“Uh, I blacked out?” Nick offers. He pulls the sleeves of his jumper over his hands, fiddling with the cuffs. “I drank too much last night, I had an asthma attack, I don’t know. The guy was a wanker.”

“You never talk to people like that,” Ian says, eyes slightly spacey, “you were like a Louis Tomlinson-induced Hulk. It was hilarious. Unprofessional, but hilarious.”

“Let’s just talk about something else,” Nick says loudly, flicking a switch on his soundboard. “Welcome back, now our next tune is by the lovely Paramore.”

The rest of the show goes smoothly, but his producers keep sending him suspicious glances. Nick ignores them, and tries to pretend his cheeks aren’t still flaming red.

 

Louis hears about Nick defending his honour, because of course he does; he’s friends with Harry, he does own a radio, and he wouldn’t say he surfs tumblr, but he does have a little look every now and then.

He listens to the interview (the caller’s a dick), curled up in his teeny bunk. His stomach balks at the vocal coach comment, because he’s insecure as fuck, something four years of media scrutiny hasn’t helped. His fists clench in his blankets, but then Nick defends him, in a weird, awkward, Northern way, and Louis doesn’t quite know what to do.

He decides to go visit Harry, because he’s the Nick whisperer and all. He doesn’t really care they went to bed a couple of hours ago; he’s not sure Harry sleeps anyway. Harry probably recharges by reading knock knock jokes and watching funny cat videos.

He slips into Harry’s bunk, cuddling up under Harry’s arm. They can’t do this in public anymore, bloody Larry Stylinson -  but they’re as close as they ever were. Harry’s arms immediately slip around Louis’ body, tucking him close and letting Louis rest his face in the crook of his neck.

“Wanted a cuddle, boo?” Harry yawns, curls tickling Louis’ face.

“Hm,” Louis says noncommittally. “I need your people skills, actually.” Harry giggles at that, making stupid thrusting movements with his hips. “Jesus, Haz, not like that. I need to borrow your hipster translator for a bit.”

“Is this about Nick?” Harry asks, settling back against the wall so they have more space. The shadows lick at his face, so Louis can only just make out the green of his eyes, the cut of his cheekbones.

It feels soft and sacred in their little bubble, hidden from the rest of the tour bus. Louis clears his throat. “Um, yeah.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Harry says blithely, scrunching up his nose. “Nick says stupid things all the time - “

“Oi,” Louis snaps, smacking Harry on the chest. Harry mewls like a sad kitten. “It wasn’t stupid!”

Harry sighs, running his hands through his hair, tugging on the knots in it. “No, Louis, I meant -”

“It was very nice, actually,” Louis scowls, irrational anger bubbling in his chest, “it was really nice, and he didn’t have to do it,  so don’t call it stupid.”

“I was going to say,” Harry cuts off, putting one huge hand over Louis’ mouth, “before you went psycho on me, that Nick says lots of stupid things, but I think he meant that one.”

“Oh,” Louis says, deflating like a puffer fish. He feels like an idiot now. Hesitantly, he says, “Why?”

“Oh, Lou,” Harry says in a sad tone, and pulls him in for a big hug. Harry’s arms are strong and comfy, and Louis lets himself close his eyes.

It’s true, is the thing. No one says nice things about him, not really. His mum and sisters do, obviously, and the boys, but not the media. When he was younger they called him out for being too camp, too flamboyant. And there was the whole pisstake of his football career, what a fucking joke that was. And to top it off, he knows he’s the weak link - knows there’s a reason why he had the minimum amount of solos. As least if he’s writing, he’s _contributing_.

Fuck, even Nick’s had his choice of words, the fucking Twitter debacle, so Louis doesn’t understand why he’s standing up for him now. Standing up for him _at all_.

“You’re worth it, Lou,” Harry says quietly into his ear, letting go of him but keeping his hands on Louis’ arm, warmth spreading from the point of contact. “When are you going to believe that?”

“Alright, don’t get soppy,” Louis teases, but something unclenches in his chest at Harry’s tone. “Sorry for snapping. Do you think, um, do you think I should say thank you?”

Harry shrugs. Unhelpful brat. Louis doesn’t know why he sneaks in to cuddle him. “You could. He’d probably like it, but it’s not like you asked him to do it? I’m not sure you’d be sincere, and then it’d ruin the effect.”

“Ruin the effect,” Louis snorts, “right, cheers, Haz. Does he, um, did he say anything about it to you?” Louis cringes; he sounds like a teenage girl, talking to a friend who has the same class as her crush.

“A bit,” Harry says vaguely. Louis pinches his arm. “Ow, Louis! I don’t know, he just said did I hear it, so I listened to the podcast, then I said I thought it was a nice thing to do. And Nick said Finchy tried to strangle him after work, so I said about that time you strangled me -”

“It was a light choke,” Louis sighs, “and you were being irritating -”

“I asked you if you wanted some herbal tea,” Harry scowls, “anyway, shut up. Long story short, he thinks you’re the Hulk.”

Louis blinks. “What?”

“Or he’s the Hulk,” Harry says slowly, scrunching his nose up. “His text was really garbled. Something about you turning him into the Hulk.”

“Fantastic,” Louis scowls, crossing his arms. There’s not really enough room for it, but. Dramatic effect and all that. “Really great, Harry. I completely understand where me and Nick now stand in our non-existent relationship.”

“Do you want it be existent though?” Harry asks, and he does this stupid waggly thing with his eyebrows.

Louis punches him in the balls, then can’t stop laughing when Harry actually tears up.

  
  


When Nick does finally meet Louis face to face, after all this vicarious communicating, it’s at Harry’s house.

Nick’s not surprised. Everything else has been through another person. Being at Harry’s house is just continuing the trend.

It’s Harry’s London flat, not his fancy LA mansion, and it’s Niall’s birthday, which inexplicably is being held at Harry’s. Less inexplicably, the whole of England and Mullingar have turned up, because Niall is actually Nick’s third favourite boy bander, and also Matt Fincham’s, which will be worth a laugh on Monday’s show.

“Nick!” Niall yells, rose flushed and scruffy haired. He has a pint in one hand, a princess crown on his head, and a very drunk Harry Styles clinging to his waist. Harry looks equally smashed, swinging his hips back and forth to a silent rhythm.

“Grimmy!” Harry roars, actually roars, which makes Niall burst into hysterics. They are a ridiculous pair, Nick thinks fondly. They are also painfully young, which he tries to ignore.

“Hazza,” Nick grins, “where’s the rest of your clique? Happy birthday, Niall, by the way.”

“Cheers,” Niall beams, bumping his hip against Harry’s. Harry looks as though he’s about to topple over, but Niall’s strong arm straightens him. “Don’t know where the rest have fucked off to. I -”

“Louis’ in the kitchen!” Harry yells. Christ, he’s drunker than Nick thought, fringe flopping over his green eyes. There’s music thumping from the living room, copious bottles of booze sprawled around the place. “He wanted Liam to do shots with him, but Liam said no. Zayn said yes though. It was hot. You should do shots off Louis, Nick!”

Fucking hell, Nick really doesn’t need those mental images, especially when he’s in jeans this tight. Louis’ pointed pink tongue, salt slithered over his tan skin - yep. Definitely doesn’t need that. Not unless he’s going to pop off to the loo for a quick wank, at any rate.

Fuck, when did Nick get so _messed up_? Yes, he can appreciate - purely aesthetically - that Louis is very, very pretty, but he could say that about all the 1D boys. It would be a lie not to. A huge, massive, lying lie. Just because he didn’t slag him off on radio, it doesn’t mean they’re going to get _married_.

“Nick, stop thinking,” Harry whines, still swaying like those hula doll bobble heads you get in cars. Harry would probably quite like a hula skirt. “You’re doing that face. Go talk to Lou, yeah? Please?”

For some reason, the idea of talking to Louis makes him feel sick, more so than usual, but Niall and Harry are pouting at him, and Nick can’t handle that. He’s 30, not invincible. He’s also way, way too sober for this, so he snags a shot or five before he toddles off to face the dragon that is Louis Tomlinson.

Louis Tomlinson is sitting on the counter when he stumbles into the kitchen. He’s swinging his legs obnoxiously against the counter, jeans rolled up at the ankles. His hair is swooped up in a quiff, collar of his shirt stretched out to show his collarbone. His eyes look very blue in the light, and they narrow when they take in Nick.

Louis drums his heels against the counter, then says, apropos of nothing, “I’ve heard you haven’t been talking shit about me.”

“I don’t - “ Nick says, immediately defensive, then freezes. “Wait, what?”

“Haven’t invested in any hearing aids?” Louis says sweetly, clicking his tongue. “I heard you haven’t been talking shit about me,” he says slowly, enunciating every word like he’s talking to a  child, and Nick hates him a lot.

He also wants to kiss him a lot. That could possibly be a problem. Or a solution. Nick’s brain is a bit fuzzy from the shots.

“Wait a moment,” Nick scowls. “Are you slagging me off because I haven’t been a prick to you? What the fuck, you throw a fit if I say anything bad, you can’t take it if I say anything nice -”

Louis sighs, and slides off the counter with a flex of his hips. He walks forward, licks his lips once, and kisses Nick.

Nick starts in surprise, rocking on his feet. Louis curls his hands in the collar of Nick’s jacket, hot against the bare skin of his neck. Nick slides his arms around him automatically, placing them against Louis’ back.

Kissing Louis is not how he’d expected it. It’s slow, unhurried. Louis slides his lips against Nick’s, a gentle brush as if they’re exchanging air. A slow, burning heat settles in Nick’s stomach, Louis licking languidly into his mouth, tongues brushing as if he’s trying to get the taste of Nick. Nick kisses him back, gently tugs Louis’ bottom lip with his teeth. Louis moans, a breathy little groan, and that’s almost as sweet as the alcohol on Louis’ lips.

They pull apart slowly, still entwined, and Nick feels a syrupy feeling course through his bones. Louis’ fingers gently card through Nick’s hair, looking up at him between feathery lashes. Louis is small and pliant against him. Nick’s hands cup Louis’ waist, fingers spread over his hips, and Nick feels a jolt of heat rock through him at that.

“Turns out,” Louis says softly, in his raspy, high voice, “I kind of like boys who don’t talk shit about me.”

“Yeah?” Nick says quietly, little furls of hope blooming in his chest.

“Makes a change from the press doing it,” Louis says, shrugging, like it’s completely normal, and Nick feels like he’s been punched in the chest. Louis says it so casually, and Nick wants to grab Louis and snuggle him like a kitten, and Nick doesn’t even like kittens, so.

“Well, I know how to handle the press, darling,” Nick says softly, and Louis snorts, shoving him the arm.

“God, you sound like such a twat,” Louis giggles, but he’s laughing, and Nick feels strangely proud of himself. “Next you’ll be telling me you’re a world famous radio DJ.”

“Nah, that’s all lies,” Nick says casually. “I’m a boy bander, actually. Quite famous, might have heard of me. The curly one’s definitely the fittest one, though -”

“Shut up,” Louis says, raising one eyebrow. “The Irish one is definitely the fittest.”

Nick pokes him in the arm, so Louis pinches him very hard in the hip, because Louis apparently doesn’t understand things such as proportional response. He’s a little a brat, which is exactly why the next thing Nick says is, “Do you, um, do you want to go out sometime?”

It sounds stupid, and Nick’s cheeks are flushing by the end of it, heart thumping like a jackrabbit in his chest. Louis’ affected too, though he pretends not to be, but Nick can see the slight shock in his eyes.

“Well,” Louis says slowly, “I was going to suggest we lock ourselves in Harry’s room, and you lick me out, hold me down until I scream loud enough everyone downstairs knows exactly what we’re doing.”

Nick gapes at him. Louis casually adjusts his shirt and cocks one eyebrow. “But you know. Going out. Sounds fun.”

“You’re a menace,” Nick hisses, but just Louis’ suggestion has him half hard in his jeans. Christ, Nick hasn’t been this turned on since he was a teenager.

Louis’ giving him this self-satisfied smirk, thin lips curving upwards. Nick may possibly be screwed, but he also may be the one doing the screwing, so it’s probably worth it. Louis looks stupidly pretty  in the harsh kitchen lights, so Nick hooks one hand in Louis’ belt loops, tugs him forward to kiss him firmly.

Louis hums against his mouth, and Nick thinks, yeah. He kind of likes this face-to-face thing.

 

 

 

_Epilogue_

**Sugarscape**

**November 30th 2014 - 17.58**

**‘Tomlinshaw’ still go strong at charity match**

_Louis Tomlinson was seen today with Radio 1 boyfriend, Nick Grimshaw. Tomlinson, 22, was playing at a charity football match for The Lullaby Trust, one of numerous charity matches the popstar has played in. Hundreds of One Direction fans showed up to the match, and over £3 million was raised for the charity._

_However it wasn’t all about balls - pardon the pun - when Grimshaw decided to get involved in the game himself! The 1D star was tackled late in the game, and although he got straight up, appeared to have some heavy bleeding from his ankle. Grimshaw, 30, shouted at the ref, as well as the offending player, until eventually the player was sent off with a red card. It seems it’s not only teenage girls Direction-haters have to fear - Louis’ beau is fearsome indeed!_

_Louis himself didn’t seem to be too bothered by the incident. He was seen laughing with Grimshaw at halftime, doing an exaggerated leap into his boyfriend’s arms, before sharing an intimate kiss. (By intimate we mean captured by the hundreds of spectators, see insert 3.)_

_Even sweeter, when warming up for the second time, Louis was reported to be wearing Nick’s leather jacket - we’ll let the conspiracists decide on that one. Louis wasn’t the only 1D lad involved in the match - Niall Horan and Liam Payne also joined the game. Harry Styles also made an appearance, choosing to watch from the side-lines with Nick, with a clipboard in his hands for no apparent reason._

_Zayn Malik didn’t attend. Hands up if you’re surprised._

_Tomlinson announced he was dating Nick last month in a press conference. The star admitted they’d been dating for five months, but hadn’t felt it was the right time to come out to the fans. Despite receiving some barbaric abuse on Twitter (really, guys, get back to your caves), One Direction’s newest album, Four, released last Monday, shot to the number 1 spot. This  prompted a world trending tweet of #rainbowdirection, along with some more crude suggestions we can’t put here. We do have some class._

_Nick and his boyfriend were seen celebrating later on that night, hand in hand as they left The Gold Hart, near Nick’s house in Primrose Hill. The other boys also joined in celebrations, seen stumbling out of the pub minutes later, an adorable tangle of tipsy boys._

 

“They called you my beau.”

“Shut up,” Nick grumbles, one hand pressed over his eyes. Louis peers down at him, sprawled over Nick on their worn sofa. Nick is comfy beneath him, so Louis purposely digs his elbows into Nick’s stomach.

Nick exhales like a crushed balloon, scowling whilst he shoves Louis off. Louis almost falls onto the floor, only he grabs the back of the sofa just in time. Nick kicks him gently, sitting up and curling his arms protectively around his legs.

Louis beams at him. Nick flinches. “ _My beau_ ,” Louis says delightedly, “that makes you sound even older. Like, proper old. That’s not a couple of wrinkles, that’s Victorian. And you went ape shit at that other guy. That was awesome.”

“I didn’t go ape shit,” Nick says distastefully, but his cheeks are going that lovely pink colour Louis adores. “I just pointed out, firmly and um, pointedly, that he was a wanker who couldn’t play football if he was possessed by David Beckham.”

“That was inspired,” Louis says grandly. It had been pretty funny. The guy had gone purple in the face, then he’d actually been sent off. Louis had given Nick a half time blowie he’d been so impressed.

“Shut up,” Nick mumbles, so Louis shoves him, makes him put his feet down so Louis can rest his head on Nick’s lap. He breathes slowly - inhale, exhale - Nick’s hands carding through his hair, still a little wet from his post-match shower.

“I like it when you stand up for me,” Louis says quietly, words pressed into the fabric of Nick’s jeans. Nick pauses, but then continues slowly tugging the ends of Louis’ hair.

“You stand up for me too,” Nick says finally, slightly wavering like it does whenever he talks about emotions. Nick’s allergic to emotions. “You called that girl a twat in Tesco, because she said my music choices were terrible that morning.”

“They were terrible,” Louis says blithely, “but only I’m allowed to say that.”

“Isn’t that how this started?” Nick grins, and then he pulls Louis up into his lap and kisses him. 

**Author's Note:**

> KUDOS AND COMMENTS WOULD BE AMAZINGGG :)
> 
> [my tumblr! :)](http://ariadneodair.tumblr.com/) if anyone wanted to check it out, lol :)


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